


snow had fallen, snow on snow

by Siria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s grown accustomed to feeling cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snow had fallen, snow on snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 400th fic I've posted to AO3! *blows tiny kazoo* Thanks to sheafrotherdon for betaing.

Derek’s grown accustomed to feeling cold. Maybe that’s why he’s shivering so hard now, with the fire burning bright in the grate and Stiles’ palm resting lightly on his back as they lie together on the couch, bare belly pressed against bare belly. His body’s overwhelmed by this wash of heat in the mid-winter, unexpected when he’s human-looking and has no fur to keep the chill of the December wind from his bones—overwhelmed by having Stiles so close to him, after so long spent keeping people at arm’s length.

Stiles runs his hand up along the length of Derek’s spine until it’s resting right over the dark curves of his tattoo. “This is okay, right?” he says softly. “You’re okay?”

Derek doesn’t answer him, just presses closer so that he can rest his head against Stiles’ shoulder. He’s been saying _yes_ to Stiles for so long now, in so many unexpected ways, that he doesn’t think he needs to speak the word out loud. Derek’s still here, after all, no matter how much he’s trembling—no matter that the simple press of Stiles’ hand against Derek’s back feels more intimate than anything Derek’s allowed another person in quite some time. He wants Stiles to touch him; he wants to be okay with Stiles touching him. 

“Good,” Stiles says, and it’s astonishingly easy for Derek to let himself rest in that moment, listening to the sound of their breathing, their syncopated heartbeats, the soft murmur of Stiles’ voice as he tells Derek about his day. The whole time that Stiles is talking—about people Derek’s never met and classes he’ll never take and the godawful quality of the guacamole in his dorm’s dining hall—he keeps his hand steady and centred over Derek’s tattoo. It’s completely innocuous and the sensation makes Derek sweat, makes him shiver and shake, and only when the tremors start to subside does Stiles start to move his hand. Two big circles around the triskelion, clockwise and counterclockwise, then down to the small of Derek’s back and up again, as if Stiles is trying to spread all of that warmth through the rest of Derek’s body, to work it under the skin with his fingertips. 

Derek has the sudden, shocking recollection of what it had felt like to get the tattoo in the first place—the needle and the flame, the smell of ink and wolfsbane and blood, twenty and so angry Laura hadn’t known what to do with him. Stiles’ touch is the same heady mix of pain and not-pain as that memory, of the sharp sting of healing and the remembrance of the triskelions etched around Derek’s parents’ wedding rings. Derek gasps. He feels like he’s been punched, hard enough to wind him, and he chokes as if there’s some terrible thing inside his rib cage, weighing him down and pulling at him, determined never to let him breathe easily again. Stiles has to have noticed, but he just keeps talking to Derek, keeps touching him, easy and quiet, as if that’s enough. 

Maybe it is, because when Stiles takes his hand away Derek feels the sudden absence like a loss. He keens briefly but it’s barely a moment before Stiles is touching him again—this time with just the tip of one long, fine-boned finger. He traces along the very edge of Derek’s ink in a steady, even movement, defining the border where the triskelion ends and unmarked skin begins. Derek’s hips jerk, his toes curl, even though he’s nowhere near getting hard. Stiles’ touch feels a little ticklish and a little like the tattoo’s being burned into him all over again, and even though the wind is rattling the windowpanes, Derek’s finding it difficult to remember what it’s like to feel cold. 

He opens his eyes, shifts his head so that he can look directly at Stiles. Stiles is smiling at him—that too-open grin that Derek’s been helpless with wanting to kiss for such a long time now, because Stiles is ridiculous and loyal and mouthy and _his_. Stiles’ clever fingers are still inscribing slow circles on Derek’s back, and nothing about them has ever been easy, but Stiles asked him if he could touch Derek there. Stiles has worked out, from Derek’s halting words and the way he can’t stop his hands from curling into fists whenever he talks about it, that the triskelion is a reminder—no matter how far away Derek runs, he’s never going to be able to outrun the guilt, the shame. Stiles knows all this and he’s touching Derek anyway. Derek’s never been religious, not had much room for faith in his life, but he can recognise grace when he sees it. 

“You still okay?” Stiles asks. Even now, Stiles is smiling.

Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak, wishing desperately that he was better at this.

“Good,” Stiles says, and then, fiercely, “ _Good_ ”, hauling Derek in close so that he can wrap both arms around him, both big hands splayed wide and encompassing against Derek’s back. Stiles smells good, familiar—the salt water tang of fresh sweat just starting to overwhelm the fading odour of his deodorant, and something underneath both that might be heedless happiness. “You get to have this,” he whispers against Derek’s ear, even though it’s just the two of them in the house. “You do, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

“I—” Derek’s voice cracks and he pauses to swallow, closes his eyes again. “I don’t—”

“You’re okay, don’t be such a—” Stiles says, a little louder but no less fierce. “You _are_.”

There’s something coming free behind Derek’s breastbone, some strange impulse that makes him want to laugh and cry all at once. He settles instead for pressing careful kisses to the moles that run along Stiles’ jawline, to his throat, to the silver scars that curve over one shoulder. “We’re okay.”

“Finally,” Stiles says, laughing, with so much affection in his voice that it makes Derek want to offer up his throat, “finally he gets it!”

Outside, the winter storm picks up—icy rain beats against the house, sets tree branches to groaning and creaking—but inside, curled up on the couch, Derek is content to lie between the fire’s heat and Stiles’ warmth. He could get used to this.


End file.
